


you think that's where it's at but is that where it's supposed to be

by notthebigspoon



Series: Brandon and Hobbes [8]
Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-29
Updated: 2012-09-29
Packaged: 2017-11-15 07:23:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/524669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notthebigspoon/pseuds/notthebigspoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brandon had known this was going to happen. As soon as the story about Hobbes slipped out and started making the rounds, as soon as his mom had called him, he'd known that this was going to happen.</p><p>Title taken from Jaded by Aerosmith.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you think that's where it's at but is that where it's supposed to be

Brandon had known this was going to happen. As soon as the story about Hobbes slipped out and started making the rounds, as soon as his mom had called him, he'd known that this was going to happen. This being his parents coming down for a game. It's the first time he's seen them in person in over a year, the last time for his grandma's birthday party and he'd kept a healthy distance between him and them by hiding behind his sisters.

He doesn't know who let them into the clubhouse. Probably a well meaning teammate or staff member who doesn't know about the contentious relationship he shares with them. But they are here, big plastic smiles (plastic to him, they might mean it, he doesn't know) and closing in. He tenses, clenches his jaw and turns back to his locker. He looks at Hobbes and quickly stuff him into his bag, whispering a quiet apology and promising he'll make it up to him.

“Sweetie! Look at you!” His mom trills. Her hand lands on Brandon's shoulder and he shudders. That's when he sees it, the edge in her eyes that always turns up when they see each other, that says she's not as happy as she looks. He feels a sense of relief his sisters have never had to see that as often as he has. It doesn't feel good.

“Mom.” He answers, a bit flatly as he inspects his glove. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, we thought we'd check out one of the final homestand games.”

“You don't come to games. You're not supposed to come to games.”

He's trying to keep his voice low. He doesn't want to cause a scene but he knows that if he tries to redirect this conversation to a different area, tries to get them out of the clubhouse, something will happen, something ugly. His parents never let slip an inch of the control they still have. So he takes a breath and counts to ten, looking at his mom with the deadest expression that he possesses. It scares him how easy that face, that _feeling_ , overtakes him when he's faced with his family.

“We won't stay long. We just, wanted to check on you. You haven't been answering my calls or emails.” His mom answers, now a bit stiffly. She looks and sounds like a Stepford Wife. “Have you been taking your medication?”

“Yes.” He lies, looking away again. He scans the clubhouse, trying to spot someone, anyone, to get him out of this. But Buster is doing interviews somewhere and he knows that the others are probably uncertain about crossing certain boundaries.

“Seeing... things that you shouldn't see?”

“Not unless you count Zito's bare ass. And in a locker room environment, that's not really something you can avoid.”

The look that crosses her face, the look on his dad's face, they almost make him want to smile. He wonders if this is something that normal teenagers had got, the unamused 'you're not funny, mister, and you'd better stop it now' look. He can see why they'd hate it. It makes him feel like a kid and in a bad way. 

He remembers, for a moment, being four years old and being slapped across the face for telling mommy that he'd seen daddy in their bed with the babysitter and asking what they were doing. It makes him angry, because you shouldn't take your anger with your husband out on your kid and definitely not physically. He remembers a few years of them fighting and screaming, at him and at each other. Slaps across the face and the belt when he'd misbehaved. How his sisters had somehow changed everything, turned them into the perfect family. It was like he was the only one who remembered the bad times.

Not that he didn't want to forget. He desperately wishes that he could. Not only the verbal abuse and punishment he'd faced as a child but the years of shrinks and medicine and hospitalizations that followed when they realized his coping mechanism wasn't going away, when he was still acting like the tiger was real. He has no doubt that they know he's lying about not seeing Hobbes anymore. He has no doubt that if they could do it now, they'd lock him up all over again. It makes him angry, but physically faced with them, he doesn't feel as brave or certain as he does when the interaction is over the phone.

His shoulders creep up around his ears and he feels cold and shaky and desperately wishes that he were anywhere else in the world. He wants to get away from them, needs to, but he doesn't want to cause a scene because he remembers what happens when he cause scenes. Little boys who cause scenes need to know what's going to happen if they do so that it won't happen again. He swallows harder, looking at his shoes before looking at his parents.

“I need a drink. I'll... I'll be right back.”

He bolts, around a corner where they can't see him and just leans against a wall, taking a few deep breaths. He doesn't take the medication that he's supposed to these days but he does have something for anxiety, that calms him down when things get nasty and he feels like he can't cope. Most of the time he doesn't bother with it, he likes a hug from his teammates better but he doesn't know how to ask for that right now without drawing attention to himself and he'd left his medicine locked in his locker.

He settles for doing what he'd told his parents he was going to do, washing his face in ice cold water to wake him up, to push away the phantom feeling of fogginess. He pit stops through catering for a drink and grabs a Gatorade. He comes back still feeling sick but more human and determined not to let them scare him again. He rounds into the locker room just in time to see Buster pulling Hobbes from his dad's hand with a falsely charming smile on his face. Oh no. Here's that scene he was afraid of. Brandon draws up next to them, tries to ask what's going on but he stumbles on the words.

“I was just telling your mom and dad about how it's kind of a rule that people don't touch Hobbes. Bad luck for your mascot and all.” Buster answers, voice acid sweet. “Plus you'd already had him packed up to go home. Didn't want you to forget to put him back in your bag.”

“Buster.” His dad starts, looking around and lowering his voice before leaning in, speaking as if Brandon isn't standing right there. “I know you think you're doing a good thing for Brandon, I know you're just trying to help, but our son... he isn't well.”

Buster is angry. Brandon's never seen him this mad, not even in Chicago when Brandon had been sick and Buster had felt pissed because he thought no one trusted him to take care of Brandon properly. Brandon's dad is at least three inches taller than Buster, a little broader even though it's more gut than muscle, but Buster is up in his face, screaming like he had screamed at that ump, “No shit!”

The clubhouse grows dead quiet, all of them staring at the scene in the corner. Buster, red and shaking and angry, Brandon's mom with her mouth a thin line and Brandon's dad looking absolutely furious. They're all so angry. Brandon shrinks in on himself, wishing again that he was anywhere but here. He hoarsely whispers that they should leave, this isn't the time or the place but nobody seems to hear him.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he can see Zito and Cain slipping into action. It's on the tail end of the night anyway and people have been slowly filtering out. They quietly and not so subtly herd the rest of them out of the clubhouse. It's not lost on him that they stay and so does Sandoval and Theriot, moving closer but not quite moving in on the confrontation yet. His parents notice though and Brandon thinks that's the point, his friends are making their presence known. Showing that Brandon's not outnumbered anymore, he's protected. Brandon takes it, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and retreating backwards, stopping near them. He flashes Cain a nervous glance.

“You... you disgust me.” Buster hisses. “You treat him like a child, like some sort of defective that you can control, like pumping him full of drugs will suddenly make him palatable to your fucking sensibilities. He's not sick, he's not crazy. You're the ones with something wrong with you. You don't treat anyone like that but you sure as fucking fuck don't treat your kid that way!”

“You don't know what you're talking about. He's delusional, he's violent-”

“Ma'am, I believe crazy must be contagious then.” Cain interrupts, beaming like this is a nice and friendly reunion. “Because I seem to have come down with a case of ''holy fuck, a fucking tiger!' every time I'm around Brandon and Hobbes. Zeets, Pablo, Ryan and Buster too. Gonna try and lock us up?”

“Don't you get it?” His mom snaps, and she's crying. Brandon feels like shit now. He should say something. He can't. He never can, that's why Hobbes always does the talking for the both of them. “You're not helping him! He's not okay and he never will be if people like you keep enabling him! We're not terrible people, we just want our son to be okay again and you're stopping that from happening.”

“Your son is fine. I really think that it's time for you to leave. Maybe you should leave him alone for a while. You certainly shouldn't come back. It's bad for his well being. I have not seen him this sick and upset in a long time.” Sandoval says calmly and so politely. Brandon wants to hug him.

His teammates have all subtly moved in front of Brandon, blocking him from his parents, except for Buster who stays in his dad's space with squared shoulders and a set jaw. Brandon can see the second that his parents realize what's going on. They're shutout. No runs for the Crawfords. They've lost, they're beat. He doesn't hear what they say to him next and he doesn't watch them leave. As soon as the clubhouse doors swing shut, he collapses down into the nearest chair, burying his face in his hands and taking shuddering breaths. He's not going to cry. He's done crying over them. He's done being afraid of them. He doesn't need them, he has a family right here. He's done with them.

Just like always, Hobbes comforts him first, a paw and a head in the lap. But crouched on either side of him is Theriot and Cain while Pablo, Zito and Buster talk a few feet away. Theriot's hand comes up and brushes through Brandon's hair before picking at his scruff like he tends to do when they're goofing around. He smiles. “Y'okay?”

“I want to go home.” He says simply. He's so tired. He wants this day to be over.

“That's doable.” Cain answers and he pulls Brandon to stand up, hugging him tightly. Brandon clings to him. 

By the time he's finally let go, Hobbes has been carefully and neatly packed away for transport. Cain carries his bag for him, tells Brandon he looks exhausted and to just relax. Zito claps his hands and rubs them together, declaring that they're all coming back to his apartment and they're having a sleepover, a family bonding night of beer and movies and junk food. It's met with a chorus of enthusiasm and tired or not, Brandon likes the idea, wants to go even though he'd also like to just go home and go to bed and forget this day ever happened.

Tomorrow will be new, fresh and Pablo's right, if his parents will just leave him alone and not come back, it'll be a new beginning for him. He can trade in the family he was given for the family he's chosen.


End file.
